


Self-Interest is Divine

by warmommy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 21:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12662217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmommy/pseuds/warmommy
Summary: You are not his, and he is not yours.





	Self-Interest is Divine

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and more on my Tumblr, @vegetatargaryen.

You never spoke their names. It was silently agreed on every time one of them fell. The ones you loved. The ones you’d fought beside. The ones you’d seen torn into pieces like so many shreds of paper, blown out in the wind and now gone. Clutched in your fist was an axe,  _his_  axe. On your shoulders was  _her_  mantle. You breathed in the frozen air raggedly, looking. Searching. Waiting for Jon’s signal.

  
It was just the two of you now.

“Y/N,” he whispered beside you. He had to grab your arm quickly to ward off your panicked attack. 

 

“Jon? But you were…”

 

“We cannot go that way.” He never told you why. It wasn’t as if he needed to. It wasn’t as if you’d never  _seen_ …

 

With no further discussion, Jon slid his hand down your arm and to your own hand, and, taking it, led you to the west. 

 

 

He was too stubborn to listen to any argument, but he was right, anyway. You’d started out with a mount for each of you. Your horse became exhausted and broke her leg, after a long escape from the evil, creeping creatures that were always, always coming for you. Now you looked away, tugging  _her_  mantle around yourself, bitter frost tears sticking to your eyelashes, as Jon slaughtered Fable, the dappled mare. Even though you did not see, you could picture the blood spurting from her neck, her eyes slowly losing life.

 

Neither of you had eaten in four days. 

 

“We’ll have to make it on foot, I know,” he said later, pushing roasted meat into your hands. “But if we starve, we’ll never make it. I’m sorry.”

 

 

Another hungry night sitting by another hungry fire, you looked around yourself and you could see their faces.  _He_ was sharpening his axe.  _He_ was getting chicken grease all in his beard.  _She_ was creating charms for the fallen, hanging them on the limbs of a dying poplar tree. Your eyes glittered with tears; you could  _hear their voices once more_. Your throat closed so that you could hardly breathe, and you swallowed over and over until you could again. 

 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to them all. “I loved you all. Even you.”

 

A few feet away, Jon stirred in his bedroll. 

 

 

When you saw the Twins, you both felt a mixture of relief in fear. The further south you got, the more chances there would be to find a ship still willing to take passengers to someplace safe. Someplace anywhere else. That’s what you told yourselves, all that you discussed other than food.

 

 

The next snowfall was heavy. 

 

“Does it snow this far south?” you asked him, pressed up against his body underneath your pile of furs.

 

“I don’t think it did before,” Jon replied, his voice sounding worn. He looked at you in a curious way, then started to stroke your hair. You knew what he wanted then, and closed your eyes and kissed him deep. 

 

You were not his dead wife and he was not your dead husband, but this was the only way to feel, anymore, to feel anything happy or warm. 

 

“It’s okay,” he whispered to you, his hand now caught in your thick tendrils. You loved his dark eyes, now. You loved how he’d touch you like a jewel, with awe and with respect.

 

“Aye, Snow,” you whispered back, wrestling your way through some of your clothing to feel his skin on yours. He kissed the side of your head and your temple once, many times, his hand warm upon your neck.

 

When you reached for his trousers, Jon stayed your hands. “Not yet. We can take time. I want to really feel you.”

 

You hummed quiet laughter, your own hands now in his curls. They still felt like silk. They still bounced back into place when you pulled slightly and let one go. The way he kissed you now was different. The way he looked at you now, different. He moved above you, trying now to expose your bodies to the worst of the cold, but trying still to continue his gentle explorations.

 

Your belly tightened as his fingers moved downward, touching your ribs. Your head tilted back. You clung to his shoulders, and still he moved lower. “Jon…”

 

His lips smiled into your skin. He moved to kiss your hipbone, then nuzzled in between them. “I want to make you feel good this time.”

 

“It always does.”

 

“Good, not just alive.” Jon sucked hard on your inner thigh. “I know there’s a place we can be. I know there’s somewhere in this world. Someplace to regroup, to fight…” He edged further down. “Or someplace to be safe. You and I, waiting out the winter, safe in our own walls, just quiet, peace. I want to be with you, there.”

 

He made a sensuous feast of your body. His fingers and tongue were the patient masters of your anatomy. You pulled your wrist to your mouth and bit down, keeping the quiet, forcing the still night to remain still. It was warm,  _warm_ , his breath was hot, coming in the form of soft chuckles, hoarse moans, and exhalations of  _your_  name.


End file.
